


no mark of where you tread

by cynical_optimist



Series: brave face talk so lightly (spy au) [3]
Category: Lovely Little Losers, Nothing Much to Do
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Amnesia, Angst, Dubious Science, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_optimist/pseuds/cynical_optimist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hero nods. “I never want to forget you,” she says, and Ursula presses their lips together softly.<br/>"You won't," she replies. "Even if the worst happens, we'll always have our memories."<br/>Hero smiles into Ursula’s lips, strokes a thumb over Ursula's  check. "Always," she agrees.<br/>-<br/>Ursula gets Hero back, and doesn't at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no mark of where you tread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangetowns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/gifts).



> For my dear internet wife, Sarah. I hope your birthday is absolutely marvelous and filled with more than this angst. Sorry for making you sad on your birthday <3333
> 
> Thanks to [niuniunjiaojiao](http://niuniunjiaojiao.tumblr.com) for editing <3
> 
> A playlist for the fic can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/lydia_knife/playlist/3I3tUnKzhAcj6DvFS1l1Ss), made in collaboration with Sarah. On spotify until I can figure out 8tracks.
> 
> Title from Dodie Clark's "You're Just a Dream".

They tell Ursula it’s time to move on.

This is something she knows, logically, to be true. It’s been a year, and Leo actually looks at her when they pass each other, and Antonia and Imogen have been notified, and even Beatrice has taken up laughing loudly through the halls again, on days when everything runs smoothly. By all intents and purposes, Ursula should have moved on.

On the good days, she tells herself she has.

On these days, she struggles out of her warm bed and smiles at the sun that warms her room, before beginning the mad rush between the shower and the kitchen and the coffeemaker that she somehow completes quickly enough to get to work on time. On these days, she does not dwell over the empty space beside her in the bed, the hand that is not in hers as she runs out the door, the flashes of gold that should be in the corner of her eye but aren’t. These days, she does not think about Hero until she passes Beatrice’s desk, and even then she smiles in bittersweet remembrance.

It is a good day when Ursula’s world falls apart.

Everything fits and flows until it doesn’t. Ursula gets up, smiles, doesn’t clench her teeth together and eyes closed at the untouched half of the bed, doesn’t even look at it. She drinks her coffee as she runs out the door, sun in her eyes. She frowns at Beatrice’s empty desk on her familiar path through the agency, and then, when she arrives on the correct floor, greets Agent Kingston, the only one found in the tech offices at this time of morning.

“Ursula,” Kingston nods, amiable. She doesn’t look up from her computer, which is really no different to any other day—Kingston is friendly, and even attentive, on occasion, but she’s been recently promoted, and is keen on proving her dedication to her work. Ursula settles in front of her own equipment, cleans her glasses, and is just turning on her computer when there is a sharp rap on the door behind her.

One of the newer agents, Agent Manders, leans against the doorframe, all sharp lines and faux relaxation.

“I need you to come with me,” she says.

Ursula stands, the movement jerky, dread sinking its fangs into her heart and curling into her stomach like lead. “Did I—?”

“I can’t explain here.” Manders presses her lips together. “Ursula, please come with me.”

Agent Kingston stares up at them, looks as though she might like to say something. Ursula knows she has  _ something _ with Agent Manders, and she seems torn between two loyalties, almost.

“I’ll take care of your stuff til you come back,” Kingston says, finally, looking at Manders almost challengingly. There is reassurance there, and warning, and Ursula feels a rush of gratitude.

“Thanks, Kingston,” she murmurs, and follows Agent Manders out of the room.

She wants to ask,  _ will you tell me what’s wrong, now?  _ She wants to whisper,  _ is it to do with Hero? _ but doesn’t let herself hope.

This is a good day, and on good days she does not remember the pain.

After a few minutes and turns through winding corridors, they reach an elevator, and Manders scans her badge and waits for it to come.

“Well?” Ursula asks, a little too shaky for her liking.

Manders glances at her, forehead wrinkled and eyes almost soft. It looks like pity.

The elevator opens, and they step inside, and Manders punches in the code for an area Ursula has found little reason to explore. The doors close. Agent Manders breathes, in, out. Then—

“There was an attack on a safe house last night.”

That is not the news that Ursula was expecting.

“Sorry?”

Manders’ shoulders shift as her lips press together again. “There was an attack on a safe house,” she repeats, “and the enemy agent we captured in the aftermath has just been identified as one of our own.”

_ Oh _ . Ursula nods slowly, fury choking the remains of the dread that had filled her before. A mole, then, someone she hadn’t managed to unearth. Someone who could have had a hand in any number of the agent deaths in recent times. Someone who could have had a hand in Hero’s disappearance.

“She’s been… unresponsive to all questioning. We’re asking everyone she knew to see if anyone can get her to talk without resorting to other means. You’re the next, after the Agents Duke.”

Ursula breathes, blinks. Someone who is common to the three of them? There is no one that fits that description, not anymore.

“This agent,” Manders continues, “was presumed killed in action one year ago. Agent Hero Duke.”

Ursula’s world stops for half a moment, starts again with a jolt. Her chest contorts around itself. “You’re not…”

Manders nods, and looks at her, the pity now clear.

_ Hero, alive _ , Ursula thinks, and the word is bright and desperate and sorrowful in her mind.  _ Hero _ , an enemy.

The words catch up to her.

“Wait,” she says. Her breaths quake between her words. “She was… she wasn’t…”

Manders sighs and scans her badge again, and the doors slide open. “She was discovered last night to have been working with the same people responsible for the attacks on Agents Jones and Boyet, as well as many others. Her role within these acts is currently unknown, as she has refused to talk to anyone.”

Ursula feels like maybe she is breaking, a little, somewhere deep inside herself.

_ Hero, alive? _ Ursula has barely dared to hope. 

_ Hero, an enemy?  _ This is the stuff of her worst nightmares.

Ursula follows Manders past rows of holding cells and viewing rooms, mostly empty, until they reach the furthermost one. The walk into the viewing room feels insubstantial, almost. There is a part of her that thinks,  _ this is no more than a nightmare _ , but that part of her has been thinking that for a year, now.

There is a figure by the window adjacent to the cell. At the sound of people entering, she turns.

Beatrice Duke is pale. Her hair is tousled, as if she’s pulled at it, and her eyes are wild and red and desperate. This is not an effect Ursula has seen on the fierce agent for over a year, and dread slinks heavily through her stomach and lungs.

There is a long, terrible silence, as Beatrice’s face contorts in a futile battle for composure. “It’s  _ her _ ,” Beatrice breathes, shaky, each syllable a burst of sharp sound. “They wanted me to come down and check, in the middle of the godforsaken night, and they didn’t even tell me who it was until I arrived,  _ oh my god _ .” She looks like she is about to break. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself, and Leo is nowhere to be seen. Ursula knows that she should hug her, offer some sort of consolation, but—

Ursula walks toward the window slowly, carefully. In the middle of the cell is a table, and at the table is a chair, and sitting in the chair, cuffed to the table, is a woman that is far too sharp-edged to be Hero Duke. Her eyes are too dull, hair too short, cheeks too gaunt. There is no emotion in any part of her.

This is not the Hero Duke that Ursula remembers.

It is Hero Duke, all the same.

Manders clears her throat, not unkindly. “Are you ready to speak to her?”

Ursula should be crying at this point, she thinks. She should be feeling something,  _ anything _ , beyond the dull thrumming of her own heart in her ears and the dread coiling in her chest cavity. She nods, and waits for Manders to scan her in—she’d left everything back upstairs, by her computer—and walks into the holding cell on legs that feel like they should be shaking.

Hero does not look up.

Ursula sits in the chair across from her, and does not breathe for fear of waking. “Hero?” she asks.

The woman looks up, blank. She doesn’t say anything, just looks, and Ursula’s insides feel like they might be melting, because those are Hero’s eyes and Hero’s body, and Hero’s hair, but at the same time not.

“Hello,” she manages to say. The world is half-formed around her. Ursula wonders if she will wake up in a moment, if this will be the start of one of her bad days. She can’t decide if this would be something she would welcome.

Hero, here.

Hero, not.

The woman in question tilts her head to the side, shifts. She still doesn’t say anything, and Ursula yearns to hear her voice with a strength she hasn’t felt in years.

Ursula swallows. She knows how Hero looks when she is trying to deceive someone, what all the masks she puts up feel like. This is not Hero being genuine. Hero has never been ingenuine with her before. “They want me to talk to you,” she continues, and thinks,  _ what are you doing? _ Hero had always made a point of not telling her the whole truth, never concealing a single detail. It was her way of ensuring trust between them in a line of work that allowed for so little.

Then again, the thin gold chain running under Ursula’s collar might speak against that promise. 

Hero stares at her, blank and unfamiliarly cold.

Looking away, Ursula presses her lips together. Hero is alive. Hero is sitting in front of her. Hero is neither of those things. This can’t be real.

The woman looks down at her hands cuffed to the table, back up. Her eyes are a challenge, none of her characteristic softness present.

Ursula has never cried in front of anyone but Hero, and others are watching, and this Hero is not Hero, not quite, but she feels her eyes burning hotly. She swallows again. “Why?” The word comes out a plea.

Hero blinks. Avoidance. Ursula has seen interrogation videos. She knows the tactics.

Ursula’s throat clenches uncomfortably. “Why would you betray us?”  _ Why would you  betray me? _

No answer, not even a blink, or a head tilt, or change in expression. Nothing to indicate she has heard, or cares.

“Hero…” Ursula breathes, gut wrenching suddenly.

There is a sharp rap on the door of the cell, but Ursula barely registers it.

“Please,” she begs. “Please just talk to me.”

Nothing.

She almost wants to be relieved, that this Hero is so unfamiliar, but the hint of the feeling is followed immediately by a white-hot agony. If this isn’t Hero, then Hero hasn’t betrayed them, then Hero is dead. But this  _ is _ Hero, just as much as it is not. “Do you remember me?” she asks, suddenly desperate, as someone raps on the door again. She’s being called out of the room.

No answer.

“Please, Hero,” she begs. “Please tell me this is some sort of cover.”

The woman who is Hero and not blinks slowly. There is no secret message in the action, only confusion.

Ursula’s breath catches on the edges of her ragged lungs. “Hero…” She reaches up toward her own neck, stops herself mid-movement. Another rap, this one more insistent. Ursula doesn’t move, and neither does Hero, and then Agent Manders steps inside, a worn and weary Leo behind her.

“That’s enough,” Leo says, voice cracked and hard. “Ursula, you can go.”

She forces herself to stand, tearing her eyes away from Hero with a jerky nod. With stiff movements, Ursula walks out of the cell, past the other agents.

Then, she runs.

Left and right turns and countless doors fly past her, numbers blurring at the edge of her vision, and she keeps on running and turning and not stopping until she doesn’t know where she is, until she knows she’ll have a few moments to herself. Ursula half collapses next to an empty holding cell, too far into the labyrinth of what many agents have aptly nicknamed “the dungeons” to have any hope of getting back to anybody else soon.  _ Good _ , she thinks, and then,  _ nothing is good anymore _ .

Hero is alive; Hero has committed treason. Hero is sitting in the same building as Ursula; Hero barely acknowledged her presence.

Ursula clutches a shaking hand to the thin chain around her neck as her breath hitches painfully. Her glasses are slipping off her face, but she hardly notices.

Hero had looked at her like she had no idea who she was. Hero had looked at her without warmth, or love, or affection, or anything Ursula had become used to in their years by each other’s sides and craved in the one previous. Hero had looked at her like she was nothing to her.

Her vision blurs and fades as she presses her eyes shut past a veil of tears. She remembers, in agonising detail, the moment Beatrice had told her, through desperate pleads and gasping breaths, that Hero had missed the last two check-ins. She remembers the blind panic, the pieces of Hero left around their apartment like shrapnel. She remembers crying herself to sleep, alone in a bed far too big for just her, Bea losing hope as the days stretched into weeks stretched into months.

She remembers missing Hero, and she sobs.

Minutes or hours later, she takes three quick, shaky breaths and wipes her tears away. Then, taking out her phone, she goes to erase the footage. She’s had control of the camera systems since she was sixteen, and she knows Leo knows it, but he hasn’t stopped her, and neither had Antonia and Imogen, before they retired. She erases all evidence of her breakdown then, after only a moment of hesitation, finds the camera in Hero’s interrogation room.

On the tiny screen, the back of Agent Manders is standing across the table from Hero.

“ _ Look, Agent Duke. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’ve hurt a lot of people _ .”

The Hero in Ursula’s phone doesn’t move.

Manders sighs loudly, looks at the glass partition. “ _ Let’s look at the facts, shall we _ ?” She sets a heavy file on the table and flips it open. “ _ Hero Duke, agent. Born the sixth of August, 1995, and subsequently adopted by Imogen and Antonia Duke. One brother: Leo Duke. Does this ring any bells _ ?”

Ursula finds herself holding her breath, tension and sorrow and everything else coiling sharply in her stomach.

“ _ Your cousin’s name is Beatrice Duke. Your fiance is Ursula, last name redacted. In your free time, you enjoy reading, baking, and other such pursuits. _ ”

She clenches her eyes shut for half a second, feels the rings cool against her chest. When she opens them, neither person has moved.

“ _ One year and two months ago, you went dark in the middle of a surveillance mission, and declared MIA. Four nights ago, you attacked a safe house in corroboration with an underground agency that has plagued New Zealand for at least thirty years, almost killing two non-combatants. Do you want to explain how you got from point a to point b _ ?”

It almost looks like Hero hesitates.

“ _ Really, _ ” Manders continues. “ _ Please do. Because there’s only one way I see this going down, but your cousin insists there must be another explanation. Perfect agent Hero Duke couldn’t have just gone rogue, could she? I was recruited after you… disappeared. So tell me, Agent Duke: how did you go from a loyal agent to the cold-hearted traitor sitting before me right now _ ?”

Ursula’s chest aches in long-remembered sympathy. Of all the insults Hero had ever faced, “disloyal” was the one that cut the deepest.

“ _ I am not Hero Duke _ ,” Hero says, then flinches, as if that was not something she was supposed to tell people.

Everything in Ursula seems to freeze as Manders stumbles on screen. Hero’s voice, tinny and small through the device, slice into her chest, messy and dangerous.

“ _ I am not Hero _ ,” Hero repeats. “ _ I am Agent Seventeen; I have no name. _ ” The words are stiff and practiced and unconvincing. The slice deepens. Ursula turns off her phone.

  
  


It is raining, water scrambling down windows and rushing down gutters and darkening the sky until it almost seems like night in the middle of the day.

“Well,” Hero grins from where she’s standing next to the window. “I guess we’re going to have to bake, then.”

Ursula can’t help but smile at the delight on her face, even through her yawns. “Guess so.”

It’s one of their rare days off, one even rarer in that they coincide. They had spent the morning simply holding each other, trading sleepy grins under the warmth of their blankets, and had planned to go out in the afternoon, be functional members of society. The rain had thwarted that, but Ursula prefers this option, anyway. Here, she gets to see Hero in a fluffy socks and a bathrobe that could belong to either of them, sliding around the kitchen gleefully. She doesn’t have to worry about unforeseen catastrophes and the personas they live under. It is just the two of them, unmasked and  _ happy _ .

“Come on, Urs,” Hero  prompts, sliding to a cupboard and pulling out her mixing bowls. “These cookies aren’t going to bake themselves.”

Ursula pushes herself off their couch. “It’s so cold,” she shivers, only half complaining, because she knows what Hero’s answer will be.

Her fiance doesn’t disappoint. “Come cuddle with me and keep us both warm, then.”

Ursula complies, and nuzzles into Hero’s hair, still yawning sleepily. “We could just cuddle in bed for a few more hours,” she murmurs.

Hero laughs, and it shakes Ursula, too. “But then we wouldn’t get cookies.”

Ursula hums.

“Just cuddle me while I bake, then,” Hero mutters, her smile obvious in every syllable. Ursula shifts so that she’s standing behind her, and wraps her arms around her waist, hooking her chin over her shoulder.

“M‘kay.”

Ursula moves with Hero, allowing the smooth shifts and soft sounds to guide her back to sleep. Then, so quiet Ursula can barely hear it, Hero whispers, “I want to be awake for every moment I can with you.”

Ursula smiles, winds her arms a little tighter. “I love you, too,” she says into Hero’s cheek.

Hero twists so that she can press a kiss to Ursula’s hairline. “We can cuddle properly after I put these in the oven.” She freezes then. “Oh gosh, we should probably make ourselves lunch first.”

“Did we forget that?”

Hero huffs, half a giggle. “We did. Urs, I think our right to be adults is officially revoked.”

“But then we won’t be able to get married.”

Hero considers. “We might have some leftovers in the fridge.”

Ursula detaches herself from Hero to check, pulling out a container of spaghetti bolognese. “I’ll just heat this up?”

Hero nods, turning her attention back to the cookies. “Thanks, babe.”

Ursula takes the lid off and sticks the container in the microwave, gathering plates and cutlery. Setting them on the counter, she turns to Hero and watches her place the balls of dough on a tray, humming under her breath.

“When’s your next mission?” she asks. “I think I can ask for a few more days off.”

Hero sets the last bit of dough on the tray. “Next Wednesday, according to Bea.” After putting the tray in the oven she stretches, then half pads, half slides to Ursula. “Are you sure? I know you’re swamped at the moment.” 

She shrugs. “We hadn’t actually been able to spend time together for months.” Hero steps closer and wraps her arms around her waist. Ursula pecks the tip of her nose softly.

“I’ll make sure I’m not needed for anything, then,” Hero murmurs, face upturned. Ursula presses a soft kiss to her lips, and delights in the way they curve into a smile.

They stand like that for a few moments, foreheads touching, listening to the steady reassurance of two sets of lungs working in tandem, rush of rain outside. Then the microwave finishes its course and lets out a quick, sharp screech, and Ursula lets go of Hero to get the bolognese out.

“I’ll get the cheese,” Hero offers, and slides to the fridge. “Do you know if we have any already grated?”

“We should?” 

“Found it!” Hero slides back over, smiles. “I’ve missed wearing fluffy socks.” 

Ursula has missed Hero in fluffy socks, or, more specifically, missed how they are a symptom of Hero’s more carefree moods. Ursula knows what goes on in the field, knows that Hero rarely agrees with what she is required to do, knows it weighs on her. The days pre-mission are always the best, because Hero is determined not to think of it until she has to start her preparations. Ursula isn’t sure how healthy that is, but Hero does attend the mandated counselling after every mission, and talks to Ursula about what she can, so it’s something they can worry about when it becomes an issue. It’s her happier days that matter, at this point.

“Do you remember,” she asks, instead of voicing this, “that time Beatrice dared us to slide through the agency in our socks?”

Smiling, Hero grimaces. “Oh gosh, we were-- what, fifteen, then? I can’t even remember what the consequences for that were.”

They’d been in training, then, but they’d been in training all their lives, really, and Imogen and Antonia had done nothing but shake their heads and recycle the lecture about secrets and trust and how many people could have seen their faces. They might have suspended dessert privileges for a while, possibly.

“Imagine if we were to do that now.”

“Leo would fire us.  _ I  _ would fire us, if I were director,” Hero laughs. “Two trained secret agents sliding down halls in socks, getting in the way of missions?”

Ursula would do anything to hear Hero’s laugh, she thinks. She would give all of herself to see her smile. “Perfect diversionary tactic; while everyone is staring, Beatrice is taking over Leo as director.”

Hero laughs again, loud and free, and here, in their apartment, with the rain a soundtrack to the quiet moments of their shared lives, Ursula thinks,  _ this is the future I want _ . She has never taken the time to consider the nebulous and uncertain “rest of her life” before, but her fiance is in her arms, soft and sweet, and they are happy, and this is how she plans to spend it.

  
  


The return of Hero, more classified than anything Ursula has ever seen in her life -- and that is saying something -- results in a string of bad days almost worse than the period of time just when people were starting to give up on Hero the first time.

This is what happens, usually: Ursula does not sleep. She goes home every second or third night, if someone forces her, and keeps a bag of clothes under her desk. She uses the shower downstairs, and keeps her headphones on in the transit between the tech area and the bathrooms. She ignores Kingston’s concerned looks and eats when she remembers, and falls asleep at her desk for an hour or two at most, if she is lucky. She is busy: with a million tasks that she’s been putting off for weeks, with the mission Manders and Peter have been sent on, with checking the footage of Hero’s cell every hour on the dot, because she still can’t quite believe it, can’t accept the terrible, wonderful reality. She searches for references to “Agent Seventeen” and finds nothing but vague allusions and careful misdirection.

After four days of this, Kingston stands next to Ursula’s desk and gives her two minutes to shut out of whatever it is she’s doing.

“I’m taking over tech for all standing field missions,” she informs Ursula. “And we have enough helpers around here to sort out the other stuff for a while. You are going home, and you’re not coming back for at least forty-eight hours.”

Ursula  blinks, eyelids heavy and wide. “I’m busy,” she replies.

“Well, you also haven’t slept in twenty hours.”

Ursula looks at the time, realises it’s true, and notices at the exact same time that she should probably check on Hero, now.

“I can’t,” she answers, not looking. She feels terrible, really, that she’s brushing Kingston off, but  _ Hero is alive and here and not and _ \--

“Ursula,” Kingston says, firm, and turns her chair forcefully. She stares into Ursula’s eyes, brow furrowed. “Go home. I haven’t seen a streak of days this terrible for months. Just sleep for now, okay?’ Her eyes soften, fill with something too much like worry. “You can book another appointment with Kit for when you get back, if you need. Right now, though, you’re working yourself to the bone, and we can’t afford to lose you just yet.”

Ursula hesitates. What if something happens with Hero while she’s gone? What if she remembers? What if she doesn’t? Hero doesn’t belong in the empty cells below the agency, within the carefully constructed mind of “Agent Seventeen”.

Here is what she has found: mentions of negative reinforcement and experimental drugs, and twelve unsuccessful attempts out of twenty. It’s simple, then, to remember the blank, suspicious eyes in Hero’s face and come to a conclusion.

Brainwashing, or something of the like. Induced amnesia. Trained agents. Tin soldiers.

As soon as she has proof, she can present it to Leo, and they can work beyond the messy tangle of amnesia and betrayal toward an achievable goal. They’ll get Hero back, properly.

Ursula won’t be able to do anything like that without sleep, though.

“Okay,” she answers, the pause a beat too long.

Kingston sighs, relief evident on her face. “Good. Gather your stuff; I won’t be letting you in here for at least two days.”

Ursula complies, rubbing her eyes, and Kingston shuts the door behind her. Then, she turns right, toward the elevators, and scans her ID. It authorises, just as she knew it would, just as it would not have yesterday.

She needs a couple of minutes, just to see her. There was a time when she would be going home either to or with Hero almost every day. That time is long gone, but maybe it won’t be forever. Maybe she can sort it out.

She just needs to see Hero again.

The elevator stops and she scans her ID again, waiting as the doors open with a soft hiss. No one monitoring the cells should have any idea that she’s not strictly meant to be down here, and Kingston is too busy with everything else she’s in charge of. The only people who could kick her out are Bea and Leo, and she hasn’t seen either of them in days.

Hero is being kept in a cell far away enough from any other occupied ones to merit her own patrol, and Ursula nods and waves her ID as she passes. They won’t know who they’re watching for, won’t know the connection between Ursula and the highly classified prisoner.

When Ursula reaches the cell, she freezes. Beatrice stands outside it, just staring at the door.

She turns, and the bags under her eyes betray the few hours of sleep she’d managed.

“Urs,” she greets. “You couldn’t stay away, either?”

Ursula shakes her head, and Beatrice approximates a smile.

“This wasn’t exactly what we asked for,” she sighs. “ _ God _ , this is such--”

“Yeah,” Ursula agrees.

Beatrice’s jaw clenches. “Leo’s restricted my access. He’s probably restricted yours, too.”

Ursula’s authorised herself to go anywhere through the agency, has since she learned how, but Beatrice is standing right there. If she doesn’t know, Ursula isn’t going to tell her.

“You should sleep,” she tells Beatrice instead, feeling incredibly hypocritical. She’s going to sleep as soon as she sees Hero, though. Really.

Beatrice nods. “I know.” A sigh. “I know-- I know I need to, that I won’t be any help to her like this. But they aren’t  _ letting _ me help, and she’s  _ right there _ , and probably hurting, under whatever it is that’s happening, and I just want my cousin back.” Her voice is desperate and broken. “I want her back, and I can’t do anything but wait for her, and I know if I did see her, she’d just continue staring at me so  _ blankly _ .”

Ursula looks toward the door, aches for the woman behind it, knows that all that Beatrice is saying is true. “She didn’t recognise me,” she whispers back, feeling like maybe if she raises her voice any further, it’ll break and she’ll break with it.

Beatrice wraps her arms around herself. “She didn’t recognise anyone.” Ursula doesn’t add,  _ she doesn’t recognise herself _ . Beatrice swears, rubs her face. “I should be getting home. Ben’ll be wondering where I am -- god, I can’t even tell him. I can’t--” Her face crumples, then smooth. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

Beatrice walks over quickly and pulls Ursula into a hug, just as she used to when they were small. Ursula wants to melt into it and doesn’t know how she’d put herself back together if she did. Then Beatrice is gone, down the long corridor, shoulders tight and drawn together.

Ursula stands in front of the door for a minute longer. She steps forward, presses a palm against the cool surface. Hero is inside. Hero is  _ right there _ .

Ursula turns and walks away. She goes home and puts the keys in the bowl Hero had placed by the door years ago, and lets herself sleep in a bed that was bought for two.

  
  


“Urs,” Hero says, in a soft whisper suited for quiet darkness and warm blankets and fingers tangled under covers. Ursula can feel her breath on her nose, almost make out her features in the dark, blurred without her glasses. “You know what date it is?”

Ursula whispers back, “That depends on what time it is.” There is no reason for them to whisper; they are the only ones in the apartment.

Hero’s nose scrunches. “That weird time between early and late, I think,” she answers. “We really should be asleep right now.”

Except they’d only gotten in from work a few minutes ago, both of them too exhausted to do anything more than brush their teeth and change before sliding under the covers. Usually Ursula loves her work, but sometimes she finds herself hating it, just a little.

“We should,” she agrees, then, “What date is it, Hero?”

Hero smiles, soft and sleepy. “It’s been two years.”

_ Oh _ . “Already?” Ursula asks, and means,  _ I think we’ve been together all of our lives _ .

Hero adjusts on the pillow. “I know,” she sighs. “It feels -- weird. Good, but weird. Like it was longer and shorter and exactly the right amount.”

“Yeah,”

Hero hums. “Urs, do you think we’ll get married?”

Ursula blinks, sleepy. “Probably,” she answers. It’s difficult, to imagine the white picket fence, two-point-five kids cliche for herself, but she can imagine spending forever with Hero, married or not. “If you want to.”

“I was gonna ask tomorrow,” Hero murmurs. Her words start to slur into each other when she hasn’t had enough sleep. “But I just wanted to make sure.”

Ursula smiles, the edges of her mouth tipping up as her heart heats inside her chest. “You can always be sure with me.”

“I know,” Hero replies. “It’s just nice to know.”

“Yeah,” Ursula agrees. “It’s nice to have a day to ourselves, too.”

Hero’s smile brightens, then fades. “Just a day,” she sighs. “Then another mission.”

“A day first, though,” she reminds Hero, hating to see her without her optimism.

“A day first,” Hero repeats, quiet. “And then I’ll have the memory of that.”

“You’ll always have the memory of me,” Ursula smiles, brushing the tips of their noses together.

Hero nods. “I never want to forget you,” she says, and Ursula presses their lips together softly.

"You won't," she replies. "Even if the worst happens, we'll always have our memories."   
Hero smiles into Ursula’s lips, strokes a thumb over Ursula's  check. "Always," she agrees.

Ursula drifts into sleep with a smile on her face and the woman who will very soon be her fiance in her arms.

  
  


Ursula visits Hero’s cell five times without anyone stopping her. On each visit, she stands outside the door and tries to muster the courage to enter. Sometimes it lasts for thirty minutes, sometimes a few seconds. She never opens the door.

On the sixth, Leo is waiting for her.

“Oh,” Ursula says. He’s leaning next to the door, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

“Ursula,” he greets. “Are you planning to actually talk to her this time?”

She doesn’t say,  _ I’m not sure I would be talking to  _ **_her_ ** .

Leo continues looking at her for a long moment. He pushes off the wall. “Come on,” he beckons, walking away. “The normal cells aren’t secure enough for a conversation, not until we can figure out exactly what’s happening.”

Ursula hurries to catch up. “Why are you letting me talk to her at all, then?”

Leo halts, turns to her. “She’s been asking questions.”

Ursula’s heart stumbles and trips. “Questions?”

“‘Who is Hero Duke?’, ‘Who are you?’,  ‘Who am I?’, ‘Why does someone just stand outside my cell every day?’, ‘Why aren’t you doing anything to me?’”

“Oh,” she says again. Ursula hadn’t thought her steps were noticeable enough to be heard through a reinforced door, but she also has no idea what training Hero’s had since she last saw her.

Leo shrugs. “Bea answered a few, but I forced her to go home and rest again. Her boyfriend has started calling in, worried.” Ursula knows he’s considering the pros and cons of dating a civilian and finding Beatrice’s choice wanting.

“So you want me to try, now,” she says. “To give her answers or to get them?” Ursula knows she would tell Hero everything she’s ever known, all she has ever thought, felt, or imagined, if only she were to ask. She would give it all to her and not expect anything back, if that’s what it would take to get Hero back.

“Both. Either. Neither. It’s to your discretion,” Leo answers. “Just remember…” He pauses as his voice shakes on the last syllable. “Just remember that she might not be who we thought she was. Whatever’s going on-- she isn’t the Hero we both knew and loved.”

“Love,” Ursula corrects quietly. “The Hero we _ know _ and _ love _ .”

“Yeah,” Leo agrees. He’s frowning. “Loves.” He pauses again, swallows and starts walking. “She doesn’t act like Hero, not really. You talked to her, once; you remember. She shares mannerisms with Hero, but barely. If you can’t handle it, just walk out. We’ll try another way.”

“I couldn’t,” Ursula replies. “Just walk out like that. Not on Hero.”

“I tried,” Leo sighs, “to stay. But she’s not-- that’s not Hero, not quite. I know you keep your rings inside your shirt, Ursula.” He doesn’t look at her, and Ursula wishes he would, because then she might be able to tell if he’s being sincere. “The girl you were going to marry is dead, Ursula.”

“I won’t believe that,” she answers, a soft defiance.

“Well,” Leo says, and stops outside the cell Hero had been kept in originally, the one with the table, “you might not have a choice.” He opens the door and ushers Ursula inside, and she lets herself, for half a moment, be caught in the simple fact of Hero’s presence.

The woman turns to her, frowns. It’s dissonant with Hero’s familiar face.

“Hello,” Ursula greets, hesitant. She hasn’t been hesitant with Hero since she was five years old and knew no more of her than the flash of golden hair behind the legs of the nice agent that had rescued her.

Hero presses her lips together. “Are you going to leave like the others?” she asks.   
Ursula shakes her head, then walks over to the table and sits down. “How are you?” she asks.

Hero’s expression doesn’t change. “Well.” She hesitates, then. “Confused.” This, at least, is honest. “Do you know who I am?”

Ursula nods.

“I don’t,” Hero says, matter-of-fact. “The people who trained me said I am Agent Seventeen, and that means I am no one. Everyone here says I’m Hero Duke, but they can’t tell me who that is.”

“Beatrice and Leo…”

“Beatrice told me I’m her cousin, and then she started crying.” The look on her face is almost sad, and Ursula’s heart breaks all over again. “Leo wouldn’t even look at me.”

Ursula looks down at her hands on the table. “It is difficult,” she confesses.

When she looks up again, she meets Hero’s eyes. “Did I really mean that much to you?”

“Yes,” she answers, immediate. Hero’s eyebrows raise, the motion familiar.

“I was Beatrice’s cousin,” she says. “And Leo’s sister. And the daughter of the women that agent mentioned. And I was someone’s fiance. Was I your fiance? Are you Ursula?”

Ursula nods again. She struggles to find her voice for a moment, then, “You were-- are-- my best friend. And we were in love, too.” Ursula thinks of all that they were, from the moment they met to Hero’s quiet goodbye before her last mission, the simple ring left on the kitchen counter, and finds she cannot put it into words. She looks at Hero and aches to try.

Hero hums, thoughtful. She looks at her hands and then up again, startlingly short hair brushing her chin. “Will you tell me who I am?” she asks. “Not-- not the facts. Anyone could tell me the facts. But I think-- I think I am Hero Duke, somewhere. Will you tell me about her?”

Ursula considers. She opens her mouth and closes it. “Your favourite food to bake was chocolate chip cookies,” she says, finally. “You actually hated chocolate, up until we were about ten, and I’m not sure what changed at that point but you couldn’t get enough of it. Antonia-- your mumma-- taught you how to bake. I generally just watched.” She bites her lip. “I don’t know much about before I came. We were six, then, so neither of us really remembered anything before that. We became best friends, the way six year olds do, and never looked back. You are sweet, and brave and always kind.” There are a million stories she could tell to demonstrate this; she settles on one. “When I was about seventeen, I tried to find who I was, why I was at the agency instead of witness protection, why my last name was so classified even I couldn’t be told it.”

She looks up, almost unconsciously moves her hand subtly closer to Hero.

“When I told you what I was doing, you just hugged me and started helping, calling in all the favours you’d collected to try and get some information. It didn’t work, in the end, but…” she trails off. “You were there, and you didn’t tell me to just enjoy the life I had been given, or dismiss me. That’s who you were, to the people you loved and to the people you didn’t. You carried spiders out of the apartment instead of killing them. You loved.”

Hero swallows. “I killed,” she says. “You remember Hero Duke, but I remember waking up and being told to kill. I remember doing it.”

Ursula doesn’t say,  _ that wasn’t you _ . She doesn’t think it would help. “Maybe you can remember both,” she suggests, instead. “Maybe the happy memories will offset that.” She pulls the chain with the rings over her head and places it on the table. Her throat aches with all that she has lost, with all that Hero might never get back.

Hero frowns, then nods. Ursula realises, ribs twisting around her heart, that she hasn’t seen Hero smile in over a year, and that she’s seen her frown as much in two weeks as the rest of her life. “I don’t remember this,” she says. “But… I think I want to.”

Ursula feels a smile poking at her lips. “I’ll be here,” she assures her. She picks the rings back up, hangs them around her neck, puts her hands back on the table. Hero, secured loosely, stretches out her own. She takes her hand, and tangles their fingers together, and Ursula lets the smile turn her lips up at the corners.

“I love you,” she whispers, and knows that she will be saying it until the day Hero can say it back, and all the years beyond that.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this essentially stucky!hersula? yes.  
> Do I regret everything? also yes.  
> Sarah, I hope you liked your birthday present. I'm sorry it's so sad.


End file.
